


watch you wave your powers

by marchosias



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Praise Kink, anxiety attack, but that day is not today, cliffhanger ending, i swear i will write smut someday and quit leaving y'all hanging, please validate Holden 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 07:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchosias/pseuds/marchosias
Summary: The knot of panic in Holden’s chest doesn’t relent until he’s gamboling out of the interview. It’s never gotten him ensnared like this and always relented once he’s gotten time to himself. But this attack is different. It’s up to Bill to bring him back now.





	watch you wave your powers

**Author's Note:**

> There is a dearth of praise kink and nurturing Holden Ford so here comes me on my tiny bike with my bullshit. This, just like my previous MH fic, will have smut in the future so please just hang on and I'm sorry to leave you with a cliffhanger once more.
> 
> Also umm I didn’t know the note got out in the whole summary instead of here whooooops

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

It comes as an unbidden challenge, not what Holden was expecting. It’s been a harrowing day, their interviewee a notorious and bloody killer of women – what’s new – but this one’s MO was far more bloodthirsty. The Bay Butcher’s method of picking up college girls and promising them an easy job answering phone calls would end with their bodies sliced and dumped at the side of the road like a discarded drive-thru cup. The Butcher – an average man named James Southerland - sat back in his chair and cackled and laughed and parried all of their questions. He did it because it was fun. Because he liked the blood. Perfectly normal childhood, he just said he was bored. Wanted to do something different. Bill had scoffed. “Most try golf. Tennis. But you decided to butcher girls.”

Holden remembers distinctly a bead of sweat sliding down his cheek in the hot prison cafeteria, the sounds of captive masculinity echoing in the halls and rooms around them. The chest beating, the insistence of their dominance. It was stifling. He quickly excused himself from the interview and got to his feet, the vague image of a baby deer in his head. _“It’s me this time…”_

They had both been in prisons countless times before. But this time was something else entirely. Holden’s hands tingled and his hearing went muffled and Bill was ten miles away and he had to get out of there. 

This is what he was scared of. 

He’s managed his anxiety disorder well so far, keeping it quelled in interviews and high-stakes situations, even managing to complete a hostage negotiation call without even a hint of the creeping paralysis. 

“E-Excuse me?” Holden turns now to Bill, from his position staring out the motel window into the parking lot. He hadn’t even realized he was drifting away until Bill’s voice cut through his introspection. The fading golden light of the evening has painted the whole parking lot in sharp lines. 

“Self-comfort,” Bill nodded at him from where he was sitting in the motel chair, going over their notes with glasses perched on the edge of his nose and his ankle resting on his opposite knee. He looked like a solitary island to Holden then, hulking promise of sanctuary. 

He hadn’t realized, but his arms were indeed wrapped around himself. The observation was odd, coming from Bill. 

“Been talking to Wendy about me? Nice to know,” He couldn’t keep the derision out of his voice, “The last thing I need is for you two to have to babysit me and my problems.” And before Bill can react, Holden is grabbing the keys off the table by the door and slamming it behind him, never having taken his shoes off when they got back from the interview. He’s back in the parking lot and opening their car door. He has to adjust the seat, scooting forward, feeling like a kid stealing Dad’s car. He just needs to get away, to unmoor himself and lose it for a while before he can come back. Holden scoots out of the parking lot, turning onto the highway and smashing out gears, quickly getting up to cruising speed. 

Holden drives toward the horizon, watching the sky fade from golden to orange to a violent red to deep purple. He thinks of stopping at any of the liquor stores for a brief moment before remembering the small plastic container of pills in his pocket. _The first one is probably starting to wear off…_

Then he pulls into the parking lot of a similar motel to theirs many miles back. He kills the engine, briefly considers getting a room of his own. The image of Bill’s concerned frown comes back to him, the mountain of a man piled into the squashy motel armchair. 

“What am I doing?” Holden asks himself, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, ignoring the way he shakes still. He exhales, throwing the car in reverse and trundling back onto the road, in the direction of their vaguely stuffy room for the night, in the direction of his partner. 

It’s been seven months since Atlanta. 

Seven months since the unbearable heat, since the distinct feeling of getting on the plane knowing they most likely hadn’t gotten their guy. Holden hadn’t said anything to him, but he’d noticed the moroseness and tension in Bill’s shoulders ratchet up like someone drawing all his strings tighter and tighter. Since that humid day on the riverbank, Holden hadn’t pried any further into Bill’s home life. But it’s been clear that nothing has improved – Holden can reasonably assume that things have actually gotten worse. Bill’s poorly hidden calls with Nancy always changed the man, made him hunch over his desk and whisper furtively into the phone – all cues to Holden for his ears to perk up. He was long past feeling guilty for eavesdropping, as he was long past questioning the times that he would turn and catch Bill watching – no, gazing at him. There was no other word for it. He’d turn and catch the telltale flick of eyes from somewhere around his rear up to his face. It was that train of thought that had Holden tied in knots, his hand on his dick in the shower and his bed, biting his lip and jerking off to thoughts of his partner like a fucking horny teenager.

Holden was over it. He was over sailing past the island that invited him in, over dancing around the warmth that burned in his belly – but the thought of bridging the gap has his anxiety building again. As he streams back towards their motel, he pops open the pill bottle and swallows a Valium – just one. 

It’s kicking in as he pulls up, the warmth seeping through his limbs, but his heart is still jackhammering. Holden knows his hair is mussed, he’s still wearing the clothes he sweated through the interview in, he’s generally a mess. But it doesn’t matter, Bill has seen him much, much worse.

He opens the door – unlocked of course – and lays eyes on Bill. Standing in the doorway, Holden lets himself look. 

He’s clearly just showered, something Holden needs himself. He’s in his undershirt and boxers, no cares in the world. The case files have been put away in favor of a novel, something inscrutable on the cover. That’s new, Bill reading something for his own enjoyment rather than staying haunted by the case. His broad form is stretched atop the motel comforter, one lamp casting a dim yellow into the darkness of the room. Shutting the door softly, Holden closes his mind to the whole world but this room. He feels calmer… or is that the Valium? 

“Do you feel better?” Bill’s voice is soft, genuinely concerned. No hint of analytical purpose. 

“No.” Holden plops down into the makeshift dining chair next to the window, curtains now drawn against the night. He works on toeing his shoes off and finally getting himself out of his jacket and tie. Unbuttoning his top button helps too. He scrubs his face with his hands. 

“I’ve never fucked up an interview that bad.” 

“Not since Speck, you mean,” Now there’s the note of humor, a crooked smile softening the blow. Holden knows it’s meant to make him feel better, far enough removed from the incident for it to start to be cast in a humorous light. But it doesn’t. 

“At least I didn’t get up and leave that one,” Holden’s smile doesn’t live long enough to even have a proper death. 

Bill puts his book aside and scoots to the edge of the bed. His feet hit the floor and he leans forward, elbows on knees, putting himself in Holden’s space. Holden looks up, meeting the cool blue of Bill’s eyes. There’s a gentle smile there, something that makes Holden breathe deep and the familiar sting of tears tug at the back of his eyes. No. He’s not doing this. What is he even doing? Holden is a passenger in his own body. 

“You know what I think? You don’t give yourself enough credit, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of you feeling sorry for yourself and kicking your own ass when you’re maybe the best mind that has ever walked through the doors of the FBI.”

“What?” Holden’s voice sounds soft to his own ears. 

Bill continues, “You’re the brightest light in that place, Holden. Those old suits are terrified by you.” 

Holden doesn’t know why, but he stands up then, back in control. As easy as falling into a bed after a long day, Bill reaches out for his hand. Holden takes it, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen a bit and something swell up to take its place. Bill’s hand is calloused in some places but not too rough. Holden feels the pad of his thumb swipe over the back of his hand, feels his anxiety abate just a little. 

“That’s nice.” He manages, swallowing hard. All the thoughts he’s had since he met Bill, all of that doesn’t even compare to actually being touched by the man. His head swims and his heart races. Holden loved Debbie when they were together but that seems a world away, a different Holden. They never touched each other like this. 

Bill continues, his other hand splaying competently over Holden’s hip, grasping him and pulling him just a little closer. Holden obliges, feet obeying his brain that’s been rocketed into space. The rest of the day is so far away now. All that exists is this contact. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” It’s said so casually Holden would think he was being asked where he wanted to get coffee. But instead Bill’s hand travels up his arm, fingers tracing lightly – _where did he learn to touch like this??_ Holden’s overwhelmed mind supplies dumbly.

“No, please don’t-“ he sighs, knees finally giving out to kneel on the motel carpet between Bill’s thighs. His hands brace on Bill’s knees, looking up at the man in control. And he is in control right now. It’s so cleansing to hear words of praise and encouragement, especially from Bill himself. There’s an expression of serenity on Bill’s face, kindness in his eyes. Holden could expire right now. All that tenderness, directed at him? And coming from Bill, no less? He’s out of his mind. 

He adjusts to Holden’s change in position, a hand softly on his jaw and the other smoothing through his hair, breaking the hold his pomade has on his strands. There’s no way to explain this away, no way to find a justification for Holden kneeling between Bill’s legs and letting himself be touched and petted but Holden doesn’t care. He closes his eyes and lets a small gasp escape him, not seeing the soft smile that washes across Bill’s face. 

“I see how much care and time you put into getting things right,” Bill’s low voice is a growl between them, far removed from him snapping at Holden on the shores of that river in Georgia. Holden is limp and boneless, his head leaning against Bill’s knee. He looks up into Bill’s eyes, helpless and held up by his body alone. The lines of his face are endearing, comforting – Bill is in control and far more experienced than he. The dim hotel light shines through the grey of his hair, setting it alight and making him appear an angel to the lowly sinner. 

“You’re so brilliant, Holden. Let yourself just relax.” He strokes down Holden’s neck, resting a big hand on his shoulder, the other hand still in his hair, rubbing his scalp slowly and softly. 

“I’m not dreaming, am I?” Holden asks before he can stop himself. A deep, rich chuckle comes from Bill. Holden feels it roll through Bill’s body and into his own. _Is this what intimacy truly feels like?_

“No you’re not. Up you get.” His short command allows for nothing but obedience, Holden rising to his feet just to be pulled into Bill’s lap, sitting sideways across his thighs. Thick, muscled arms drape around Holden’s form and he leans into Bill’s chest. “I can’t handle you sometimes but you’re too wild to be handled. There’s so much going on in your head all the time. You’ve got to give the rest of us time to catch up.” 

Holden feels like Bill understands him in that moment better than anyone at all ever has. He gives a short little gasp, tears threatening to fall. And there’s that big hand rubbing up and down his back. Holden turns his head to brush his nose against Bill’s. It feels like the natural gravity of where they’re heading. Holden’s blood is still pounding in his ears but he’s so goddamn turned on, so secure here in Bill’s lap, in his arms. Before he can close their mouths together, Bill smiles. 

“I know you need to shower. Go clean up and come back to me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Sextape by Deftones.....................


End file.
